Fuck.

I hang up the phone, not waiting to hear another word out of his mouth.

Twenty-Eight

Lincoln

The past

My mother walking in on Whitney and me was basically my worst nightmare, and yet I’d taken the risk all the same. It had been a calculated one, but I’d calculated wrong. Since then, Whitney had refused to see me. I’d tried calling over and over again. The only thing I could do was track her down, because from what I was told, she rarely went out in public anymore.

Because of me. Because I’m a fucking asshole. I had to make this right. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t.

Which meant going to her house. Whitney hadn’t left me any other options, and I was done waiting. I wasn’t going to let this be the end.

Who cared if my mother didn’t approve? When had I ever let that impact my life choices? I was my own man. I was a fucking Riscoff. We didn’t follow orders; we gave them.

I climbed into my truck and turned in the direction of the bridge nearest Whitney’s parents’ house instead of the one that led into town.

When I hit the railroad tracks, I took a left and followed the streets to the little house that Whitney’s dad bought after they were evicted from their family farm by the sheriff. The farm that Commodore bought at auction, and the house and barn burned down the next day. I doubted we’d ever find out the truth of what happened on that subject.

When I turned in to the driveway, I had no idea whether she was home. Whitney didn’t have a car. She borrowed her mom’s on occasion, and sometimes her aunt’s. Most of the time, she walked or rode her bike.

The one time I mentioned getting her a car, I almost blew my chance to see her ever again. Another thing I miscalculated badly. Pride was one thing my girl had in spades.

Although, based on her behavior, she no longer wanted to be my girl.

Which meant today might end with us being over, once and for all.

Just letting that thought enter my head was like a punch to the gut. It almost doubled me over. But if she doesn’t feel the way I do about her . . . Was there a point to any of this?

I parked, and the front door flew open as soon as I was out of the truck. Whitney’s father stepped out onto the crumbling concrete stoop. “You turn around and go right back the way you came, Riscoff. Your kind ain’t welcome here.”

“Mr. Gable—”

He pulled a shotgun out from behind the door. “Don’t make me shoot you, boy. Because I got no problem getting rid of a body. Especially a Riscoff’s.”

I slid back into my truck slowly, wanting to say something else. Maybe ask him to tell Whitney I came. Ask him where she was. But there was no way he’d tell me anyway. He’d just as soon kill me.